The Weather in the Streets (The Olivia Curtis Novels)

by Rosamond Lehmann

  “Why …? I’m all right.” Steady now, steady …

  “Are you in any trouble?”

  What it cost her to say that, in a level voice, was written all over her. She had turned as white as the handkerchief she held to her lips. Her eyes were sunk to tiny black pits.

  “No. Why should I be? … What do you mean?” I do sound guilty … She summoned a laugh. “Do you mean—like kitchenmaids?”

  “I think you understand me.” Her voice dragged.

  “You’re very suspicious.” Try icy dignity.

  “I don’t mean to be. I … After all, such things do happen.” She pressed her unsteady mouth with the square of lawn. “I should be so sorry … It would be so terrible for you …”

  “I’m not going to have a baby, if that’s what you think.”

  She went on as if she hadn’t heard:

  “Rollo could never … An illegitimate child would be quite out of the—quite unthinkable. …”

  “What would he do? Would you think he ought to marry me?”

  “Please say no more. I’m very sorry to have— It was a sudden— You must forgive me. I must—” In agitation she looked up and down the street. “I’d better take a taxi.”

  “Shall I ring up for one?”

  “Thank you, no; I’ll walk and pick one up.”

  “There’s generally one just round the corner.”

  “Yes—”

  She started off down the street, hurrying, her back erect, yet with a look of strain …

  She was gone.

  She didn’t look at me once after that look. She didn’t dare.

  How did she guess? Is it so plain in my face? A kind of telepathy, or intuition? Did I convince her?

  Well, I’ve seen her once knocked cock-eyed, utterly reduced to chaos … The oddest likeness to Marigold had slipped out in her disarrayed face: Marigold’s look of being cornered, of desperate shift and stratagem.

  What an awful thing, what a shattering way to part.

  I’m not going to have a baby, if that’s what you think.

  I’m not going to have a baby.

  She went upstairs and was sick and then lay down.

  Now, let’s face facts.

  He said, Remember I love you. That was after he’d read his letters: because of something in one of the letters? … meaning: remember what I meant at best? … meaning: in case from now on there’s a falling-off? …

  The words tolled now with a dirge-like note.

  And he hasn’t written, he didn’t wait in London for me.

  It doesn’t matter. I don’t feel anything whatsoever.

  Only I’m in the hell of a mess.

  Rollo, where are you? Help me.

  No, I must get out of it by myself. Because he’s not going to say: Oh, darling … tender, pitying, comforting, overcome; he won’t say, like in books, “Our child.”… Of course he won’t. He’ll say, “Christ! Are you sure? How awful. What are you going to do?”

  An illegitimate child would be quite out of the question.

  I must get out of it before he comes back. All be as before, love …

  She got up and went down to the sitting-room, and looked up Tredeaven, W.P., in the telephone book.

  “Mr. Tredeaven’s secretary speaking. Mr. Tredeaven is away on holiday.”

  “Oh When will he be back?”

  “He’s expected back next week. Did you want an appointment?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “May I make a provisional appointment for you? Tuesday next at twelve? What name is it, please?”

  “Mrs. Craig.”

  By the last post that night came a letter from Rollo: a scrawl, one side of a big thin sheet, from a Highland address.

  Darling, I do hope you’re better. Your letter didn’t say. This is a pleasant party, and eight hours of fresh air per day have blown some of the cobwebs away. (He always says that.) I’m staying in an old castle—walls feet thick—everything panelled in oak—no curtains or papers. Secret doors leading to secret passages—just what romantic you would love. Life is simple, drink and eats plentiful, and sport consists of a few grouse, partridges, black game, snipe, etc.—the usual rough Scottish shoot. It is all so feudal, all I need is a bonny lass to share my couch—I know who, in fact. I feel so fit. I think I could retire here and be a hermit for the rest of my days quite happily. Perhaps I couldn’t. Anyway I can’t! I’ll be back about the 15th, darling, and hope to see you soon after that, or will you be at your cottage? It was lovely our day there, wasn’t it? I loathe the thought of coming back, except for seeing you.

  Next day Anna’s letter said Simon was still in bed. His temperature swung up higher every day, he was feeling ill. It might be something worse than a chill. She’d got worried thinking she wasn’t nursing him properly and she’d called the doctor who’d had him moved to the British hospital, but wouldn’t say anything yet. She went to see him every day. She couldn’t come home yet. He said to send his love.

  V

  “No, my husband’s not here, he’s abroad,” she said. “He sailed for India last month, and I’m to join him at Christmas. So you see, it couldn’t be more unfortunate. I can’t undertake that long voyage alone in this state. I’m being so awfully sick, otherwise I wouldn’t mind so much. But anyway, the sort of life we’ll be leading the next year or so—quite in the wilds—I don’t see how we could cope with a baby.”

  “Quite. Quite,” said Mr. Tredeaven, folding his hands.

  She sat in his arm-chair twisting the ring on her marriage finger: Rollo’s emerald, unearthed from the back of the drawer … to look a person of consequence.

  “It would upset all our plans.”

  “Quite.”

  “Of course, we want one later … when we’re settled. It’s only just now”

  “Quite. These accidents will happen. Nature’s a wily dame.

  “No, no. You need have no fears. My treatment is absolutely harmless—absolutely simple.”

  He leaned back, tapped his fingers together. The light from the window gleamed on his egg-bald pate, trimmed round with an unprepossessing semicircle of lank, sparse mousy hair. He wore a morning suit and a high stiff old-fashioned collar with broad wings His face was broad, bland, hairless, secretive, with full eyelids and a slight puffiness about the jowls, the eyes opaque, set on the surface and widely spaced, the lips long, pale, stretched-looking. There was something about him of a Methodist preacher; something of a professional conjurer.

  “Don’t worry, Mrs. Craig, we’ll fix you up.”

  “Thank you so much …” She fidgeted with her bag. “And about—I’m not quite sure—what it is you charge—about your fee …”

  “My fee is a hundred—” Mr. Tredeaven crossed his knees. “Pounds, not guineas,” he added with a reassuring smile.

  “I see.”

  Silence fell heavily … A body blow … Mr. Tredeaven took up his fountain-pen from beside the blotter, unscrewed it, turned it about, replaced the top.

  “It’s a bit difficult,” she said. Her heart beat thickly. What did I imagine? Twenty at the outside. Has the emerald put my price up?

  He tapped his nose with the pen.

  “Well, I don’t want to be hard on you,” he said at last. “Say eighty.”

  Her straining ears caught or fancied the faint cooling-off in his voice, the slightest withdrawal of affability. Disappointed in me.

  “I can manage eighty …” If I bargain he’ll throw me out.

  What’ll the emerald fetch?

  “That’s agreed then.”

  “Thank you very much.” For his tone suggested magnanimity. “When do you want it? Before? Now?”

  “No, no, no.” He chided gently. Come, come now, tact, dear lady! … “There’s no such desperate hurry.” He opened his appointment
book. “Suit you to bring it with you when you come?”

  “Yes, I can do that.”

  He said suavely:

  “Preferably not a cheque, if you don’t mind.”

  “Notes?”

  “If it’s not giving you too much trouble. Just in an envelope, you know.”

  “All right, I’ll do that. On Friday at three, then.” She got up.

  “Friday at three.” He, too, rose. He held out his hand; strong, plump, manipulative fingers with cushiony tips.

  “Is it painful?” she said.

  “What a lot of worries!” He shook his head, chiding again paternally, half playful, still holding her hand.

  “I’m not afraid. I only wanted to know.”

  “You needn’t worry,” he said. “Don’t think about it. A few days taking it easy afterwards and your troubles will all be over.”

  “I’ll be glad.”

  “I’m sure you will.” He nodded, sympathetic, understanding. “Poor dear … If you ask me, Nature hasn’t given women a square deal—I’ve always said so—not by any means a square deal, poor things.” He patted her shoulder. “Now cheer up, Mrs. Craig. My advice to you is: forget about yourself. Get hold of a pal and fix up something cheerful. What about a theatre—eh?”

  Conducting her to the door he paused by the mantelpiece and said: “Care for pretty things?”

  “Yes.” … Oh, rather.

  “I thought you did. What do you think of these?” He indicated a couple of bronzes—female figures, semi-nude, with drapery, holding torches aloft. “I picked them up the other day. Nice, aren’t they? Empire …”

  “Lovely.” She looked at them. Meaningless, expensive, repulsive objects. “It’s not a period I know much about.” “I like to pick up a piece here and there when it takes my fancy.” He fingered them with his notable white hands.

  Whose envelope paid for those? What’ll he buy with the next one?

  “I don’t go in for being a connoisseur,” he said, relinquishing them, opening the door.

  VI

  The gentleman in the morning coat with the pearl tie-pin came back, ring in hand, from the inner sanctuary and leaning across the plate-glass counter, said confidentially:

  “We should say seventy.”

  “I see. Thank you. I’m afraid I couldn’t possibly let it go for that.” She took the ring from him and held it up, staring at it. Green, glowing, flawless … A bit of green stone. “You see, I know it’s worth a great deal more than that.”

  “It may have cost more, madam.” He shrugged. “The market for this class of stone fluctuates. It may have—I don’t say it didn’t—but between you and me if it did … I should be inclined to say … well …” His shoulders expressed regret, discreet contempt. “Perhaps just a little more was paid for it than we should have felt justified in asking …”

  Rollo, darling, I’m sorry, what a shame—your gorgeous present … I can’t help it, Rollo.

  “I suppose you wouldn’t know where it was purchased?” he asked, drumming lightly with his fingers on the plate-glass. He wore a handsome signet ring.

  “No, I don’t.” She went on staring at it. “It’s a perfect emerald, isn’t it?”

  “It’s a good stone … quite a good stone.” We are always scrupulously fair here. “I shouldn’t go so far as to say perfect. The colour’s just a trifle harsh. Now, if you’d like to compare it … let me just show you a few …”

  “Well, no, thank you. I won’t bother.” Slowly she pushed it back in its red morocco case. I must try somewhere else. I must get eighty … Supposing no one will give me that?

  The jeweller picked up the case and examined the ring again.

  “Say seventy-five,” he said.

  “All right, then … seventy-five.”

  I can’t bother any more, too ill … I want to get home. To-morrow I’ll pawn the cigarette case, it ought to fetch a fiver.

  Baleful, reproachful upon its black velvet pillow, the green eye stared at her for the last time. He snapped down the lid of the box.

  I wonder how much I’ve been swindled. Never mind. Value is only relative.

  She touched the ring on her little finger. Still there. As long as I have that …

  Ten pounds for the cigarette case: a pleasant surprise. Obviously a very superior article. Handing it over was quite painful.

  Eighty pounds in an envelope; and five pounds over. Very acceptable: Rollo’s journey money had come to an end.

  VII

  “Stay where you are, Mrs. Craig,” he said softly. “There now. Quite comfy? That’s right. Don’t worry. All over. Wasn’t too bad, was it, eh?”

  “No, thank you.”

  He put a cushion under her head, threw a light rug over her. She lay flat on the hard surgical couch and closed her eyes. Several tears ran down her face and dried there.

  “Relax, Mrs. Craig.”

  “Yes.” She smiled blindly, obedient, behaving meekly, a good patient. He slipped a hot-water bottle under the rug, close in to her side.

  “Thank you.” I’m cold—funny in this weather—glad of it.

  He moved about softly, busy with something the other side of the room, his natty back turned to her. She opened her eyes. In spite of the September afternoon sun the room was in twilight. The buff blinds were lowered; and besides this, curtains of wine-coloured net across the windows diffused a lurid murkiness. From where she lay she could see an arm-chair upholstered in purple brocade, a black-and-gold lacquered screen half-concealing a two-tiered surgical wheeled table; his big desk with papers on it, one or two silver-framed photographs. There was a smell of antiseptics.

  Presently he came back.

  “All right, Mrs. Craig?”

  “Yes, thank you.” She smiled up at him faintly, meekly. His face loomed over her, broad and bland. The high-winged old-world collar carried on the motif of his pointed prominent ears.

  My deliverer. Your victim, here I lie … “Bit shaky still, though.”

  He went away, came back with a glass.

  “Drink this.”

  She drank. It was sal volatile.

  “I might be sick.”

  He placed an enamel kidney bowl beside her chin; and soon she was sick.

  “Tt-tt-tt …” Sympathetically he removed the bowl. “Poor dear. You won’t be troubled with this much longer.”

  She sat up, swung her legs slowly over the side of the couch, did up her stockings, combed her hair …

  “I’ll tell my man to get you a taxi.” He touched the bell.

  “I don’t like your man.” Black eyes with a cast, memorising her face in one sharp furtive glance, taciturn, noiselessly showing her up. “He frightens me.”

  He glanced at her as if he thought she might be wandering; laughed.

  “Why? He’s quite harmless. A most trustworthy chap. Been with me for years.”

  “I expect he’s all right.” She sighed. “I don’t like his face.”

  “We can’t all be attractive young women,” he said casually.

  There seemed to her to be a dreadful intimacy between them: sexual, without desire: conspirators, bound together in reluctant inevitable loyalty. She bent down to look at the photographs on the desk: a rather good-looking women in evening dress, with a pre-war plait of hair round her head; two children, girl and boy, grinning, in party socks and pumps.

  “Those are my two,” he said, picking up the photographs.

  “They look very nice.” The sights those kids must have grinned at …

  “Jolly little pair.” He scanned them with an indulgent eye. “That was taken some years ago. The boy’s just gone to Harrow.” He can afford, of course, to give them an expensive education. “That’s my wife …”

  “Charming …” Does she know where the dough comes from?

&
nbsp; He picked up an enlarged snapshot: a man in waders, with a tweed hat, holding up a dead salmon.

  “Recognise that?” he said rather coyly. “Me … That was in 1928. Biggest lever landed, he was: thirty-pounder. Game old boy, too: gave me the tussle of my life. Played him for four hours. Between you and me I thought I’d pass out before he did.” Simple pride and pleasure warmed his voice. He put down the snapshot, sighed: not sinister at all, rather wistful; playing salmon more to his taste than performing abortions. “Fishing’s a grand sport,” he said. “Ever do any?”

  “Not often,” she said regretfully. “I don’t often get the chance.”

  She opened her bag, extracted the envelope and gave it to him.

  “Oh, thanks, thanks very much.” He whisked it into a drawer.

  “When will it begin?”

  “Oh—sometime within the next twelve hours.”

  “I see.”

  “Good-bye, Mrs. Craig.” He shook hands. “Best of luck on your travels.”

  “Thank you so much. Good-bye.”

  They stood and looked at each other. Never to meet again, please God.

  “I should trot home now and go straight to bed with a book. Something cheerful. There’s nothing to worry about. If you should want to ring me up, you can. But you understand—no messages … You quite understand?”

  “I quite understand. I won’t ring up.”

  He put an arm lightly across her shoulders and led her to the door. On the other side of it, in the dark hall, waited the manservant. He opened the front door for her, and there in the quiet sunny street waited the ordinary taxi.

  She went to bed and read Pride and Prejudice.

  About eight she got up again and dressed and went out and took a bus to Leicester Square. An hour or so of oblivion at the Empire, and all may be well.

  It was an American crook film, not first-class, but snappy enough, absorbing … Packed humanity weighed down the dark above, below her. She felt a tingle of consciousness: as if someone she knew were somewhere quite near in the darkness … I don’t seem to mind the smoke smell so much: a good sign?

  She leaned back and plunged into a film-trance.

  It was before the end that the discomfort hoveringly began. Pain? Yes, surely … But I’ll sit it out. Just before the lights went on she slipped away, avoiding “God Save the King.” A few others were straggling out too. In the glare of the entrance hall she saw Ivor ahead of her, walking slowly through one of the doors into the street.